


The Ashes in My Wake

by Pollys_hymnia



Series: Rare Pair Love Affair [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack Pairing, Flight of the Noldor, Fëanor is a fan, I Love You, I really do, I'm sorry Maglor, Implied Sexual Content, Interrupted, Linguistic hate, M/M, Minstrel of Doriath, Song duel, after Losgar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17912267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollys_hymnia/pseuds/Pollys_hymnia
Summary: Daeron, disappointed in love, leads a scouting party from Doriath and investigates the fires at Losgar.  In Dor-lómin, he meets Fëanor and his host.  The new king of the Noldor is not much impressed with tales of the Sindar and Doriath, nor by their tongue.  Until he hears Daeron sing.





	The Ashes in My Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening lines from "Arsonist's Lullabye" by Hozier, full lyrics at the end.

When I was a man I thought it ended  
When I knew love's perfect ache  
But my peace has always depended  
On all the ashes in my wake

 

It was the fire he saw first.  Ships blazing bright on the calm, dark sea.  Then the roar of the devouring flames came rushing, riding the wind.  Daeron knew instinctively that this was no ordinary orc-work or simple lightning-strike.  Something significant had happened.  Fate was now turning on a single moment.

Still, he and his fellows approached cautiously to investigate. Thingol would want news, but not at the price of death.  Especially when Thingol had been against his leaving in the first place. 

Daeron had loved Lúthien a long time.  But no matter how many songs he sung of her grace, her beauty, or fair words he spoke to her, it was never enough.  She did not love him and never would.  And she had made that very clear to him at their last meeting. 

The sting of rejection had spurred Daeron to leave Doriath, where he had not departed for many years. Accompanying a scouting party seemed a perfect escape and would give him a chance to take his mind off his troubles.  So he thought.

That scouting party now watched, warily at first, and marked with wonder the Noldor returning from Aman.  For so they plainly were, the light of the trees still in their eyes and on their faces.  Tall, strong, and terrible in their wrath.  In his heart, Daeron pondered the reason behind their return and he was troubled. 

It was not until Fëanor’s host had made camp in the pine-filled highlands of Dor-lómin that Daeron and his party dared to approach them. 

The Noldor drew their swords as they neared, but quickly sheathed them when Daeron spoke words of peace.  His words, however, were not well understood, and they brought Daeron and his fellows before Fëanor.

Perceiving that here was one of princes of the Noldor—now king—Daeron bowed and greeted Fëanor courteously in Sindarin. 

Fëanor stared at him with piercing eyes, a half-smile, half-sneer on his face.  He responded in clipped, proper, Quenya, with a faint lisp “Your words are strange, but so I should have expected from an elf of the darkness.  Is it such in this land that your tongue has degenerated to be spoken with such ineloquence?   Or perhaps it is mere laziness.”

Daeron listened to his words, slowly turning them in his mind as they awoke the memory of long ago.  First, they recalled to his mind the songs of his youth.  Then upon deciphering their meaning, a fierce anger was kindled in him at such insult. 

Daeron responded in halting Quenya as it was once spoken long ago, “My words are those that are spoken commonly in this land by the Gray Elves.  We are no elves of darkness, for we are the people of King Elu Thingol and Queen Melian of Doriath.  It is into his realm that you have come, for he claims all this land under his dominion.”

Fëanor laughed disdainfully, “Gray elves or dark elves, it makes little difference, and I care not who your king is.  For I am king now of my own people.  And we are here by rights to seek justice upon Melkor, the black-foe, for wrongs done unto us and to retrieve what he has stolen.”

Daeron studied him for a moment in consideration, and his tongue began to remember its old sounds better the more it spoke, “That may be so, still it does not make what I have said untrue.  But if you are enemy to our enemy, we should be allies.  Do you have any message you would have born back to the king of Doriath?”

“I have no message for him that he would understand, it seems.  You speak like a child.”

“I speak as I did when I was a child so that you might understand,” Daeron countered.

Feanor’s face distorted itself in a rage then cleared as he broke into a haughty laugh, “You are bold! And who are you who would address the king of the Noldor so?”

“I am Daeron, minstrel and loremaster of Doriath.”

“Your name too is strange, and I have never heard of you.”

“Perhaps not, but my name is known throughout all these lands.”

Fëanor sneered once again, “Is that so.  A minstrel you say?  Then you must have a mighty voice.  We too have such.  I will think little of your claims until you render proof.”

“What proof would you ask?  Would you have me sing?”

An idea struck Fëanor, “Yes, I would have you sing.  And if you can sing as well as my son here, perhaps I will reconsider your words.”  And so he thought he had Daeron caught.  He meant to shame him and then dismiss him through the power of Maglor’s voice.

“As you wish.” 

 

Fëanor gestured and Maglor came forth, harp already in hand.  He stood before the host and his fingers flew across the harp strings.  He wove a melody as intricate as one of Míriel’s tapestries.  The music grew and grew, layer on layer, with different strains intertwining and complementing each other.  Its beauty was piercing, almost painful.  Those who listened were lost in the awe of perfect perception. 

The song ended, the vision vanished.

Fëanor look pleased and turned his gaze back to Daeron, “Now you.”

Daeron sat down upon the ground before Fëanor quite untroubled.  He unslung his harp from his back and held it before him. 

Softly, Daeron rested his hands on the strings and began a gentle tune.  His fingers moved effortlessly with subtle skill.  Trees, first, took shape in Fëanor’s mind.  Tall trees under a dark sky with stars nearly as bright as his Silmarils.  The scene changed now and there in an open meadow he saw a woman.  Fair and wondrous, with a voice like a nightingale.  She was dancing and the pale niphredil bloomed as her feet passed over the grass.  She sang and swayed like the branches of a willow tree and the stars themselves were caught in her streaming black hair as she moved.  The light of her face was fairer even than the mingling lights of Telperion and Laurelin.  She was grace and beauty embodied, dancing free across the open night, here to grace mortal lands with immortal glory.  All loved her, but she loved none.

Now this song too ended.  No heart there was left untouched, and Fëanor himself felt the ineffable weight of joy mixing with sorrow within his heart.  He remembered unwillingly the unblemished days of bliss in Valinor and his overwhelming grief at the loss of Finwë. 

There was a long silence as each sat deep in his own thoughts.  At last, Fëanor spoke, “You move me.  Forgive my earlier words, for I spoke in my blindness.  And now I see.” He glanced over to his son then back to Daeron, “I have never heard one sing as you have, almost like the music of the Ainur remade.  If there are such as you in this place, then truly the land is not dark but for Melkor’s power.  And that must be purged.”

Maglor looked up at him questioningly, “Father?”

“Speak not, and know when you have been bested.  I have been discourteous, and you are right Daeron.  We should be allies.  Even strange tongues may render beauties unlooked for and unimagined.  You are a master of your craft, as I am of mine.”  He turned to one of those of his household who attended him, “Will you show our guests our hospitality?  I would not have it thought that we are mean or beggarly in our exile.”

Daeron rose and bowed low, “Thank you, my lord.  Your words are fair, and I rejoice to hear them.  We are far from home and would gratefully accept your hospitality.”

Maglor’s face was dark, his eyes fierce.  To hear his own father speak with such honor to one he still deemed unworthy wounded him greatly.  But for now, at least, he kept his tongue.

 

Later that evening, Daeron sat by the fire and shared a meal with Fëanor and some of his sons and retainers.  Maglor was not among them.  When they had all taken their fill, Fëanor addressed Daeron, “Would you honor us with another song?”

“If that is your wish, lord, I will grant it.”

“It is my wish.”

Daeron took up his harp again.  Now he began a new song, his fingers fell on the strings as soft as rain falling on the hillside.  The tune grew louder and the rain became a storm.  Lightning flared, thunder clapped, and trees were bent.  The storm passed and the sky cleared.  There now on the sloping hillside a stream ran, rushing over bare stone.  The rush became a murmur as the stream met and merged into another.  Soon there was a flowing river, winding through a land of white birches.  At last the river found the sea, and the white gulls called out in clear voices.  Somewhere, in the distance, the horns of Ulmo echoed, and the yearning for the sea was kindled in those who listened.  At the crash of a wave, and then its withdrawal, the song ended.

Another silence followed.  Fëanor stirred from his waking dream first, “Would that I had my forge, I would craft you such an instrument fit for your skilled fingers.  And so I may when I have time to take thought apart from war.  You are have a rare gift.”

Daeron nodded graciously, “I thank you, you are very kind.”

“No, I only speak the truth.  But I must also wonder why your songs are all touched with sadness.”

Daeron smiled bitterly, “We here are not without our own losses.  And not all our hopes come to be.”

Fëanor nodded in understanding, or half-understanding.  He could perceive now that even with the depth of feeling Daeron revealed in his songs, there was more yet to be discovered.  He was more complex even than the shifting tunes he wove.  And the more Fëanor learned, the more he wanted to learn more.

“Would you sing again?”

Daeron inclined his head in acquiescence and sang once more—melodies high and bright, dark and moving.  Slowly the others drifted into sleep. 

Fëanor remained awake, listening. 

 

At last Daeron set the harp aside and made as though to go to sleep himself.  Fëanor rose and walked toward him, “It is late, and you are weary.  But will you walk with me?  I have need to set my mind at ease before I seek the relief of dreams.  If they can give any.  My dreams of late have been dark.”

Daeron rose to his feet, “I will walk with you.”

Fëanor spoke of his doings in Valinor and his youth.  He spoke much of his inventions and described his organization of the tengwar.  He discoursed a little on the linguistic shift from _th_ to _s_ and so also spoke a little of his mother.  While recent events lay heavily on his heart, he did not touch on them in his discussion. 

Daeron walked beside him, listening.  He spoke in his turn a little more of Doriath and its ways.  He discussed as well his organization of the Cirth.  Here Fëanor paused and pointed to the ground “Demonstrate these Cirth of yours for me.”

Daeron stooped down and traced his own name in runes on the damp earth.

Fëanor studied the shapes he had made, “I see how these would be easy for the stonecutters to chisel, but they are nevertheless rustic in construction.”  He bent down and traced Daeron’s name in tengwar below it, “See, this much more befits your elegance.  Though I feel your name also could be better suited to you.  You are _great_ but _Daer_ is not adequate, _Taura_ would be better.”

Daeron’s eyebrows raised at this, “My name is my name.  I will not be changing it.  And while I do see the cunning of your characters, mine our better suited to our life and tongue in this land.”

Fëanor looked as though he would argue again but instead said, “Would you sing again?”

Daeron smiled ironically, “were in not for my voice I think you would have cast us out like vagabonds.” Nevertheless, he sang softly a short melody of the first spring of Arda and they resumed their walk together.

Fëanor listened and sighed, “so much beauty, so much loss.  What would it have been like to have lived in that first light?  I have often thought of the lamps of the Valar and wondered at their construction.  But Daeron would you tell me, what grief troubles your songs?  Though they are magnificent in their joy, they are all suffused with your sorrows, and there is more behind your words, I think, than you have said.”

Daeron was not sure why, but he felt compelled now to confess himself to this proud king, “there is one I love, and she will not love me.  That is the chief of my hurts of late. Though there are others.”

Fëanor nodded, “The woman you sang of, she must truly be beautiful.  You deserve love.  I loved one too, and still do.  But I am estranged from my wife.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

Fëanor shrugged, “While I am the one who began to speak of this matter, still I would rather think more of the future than the past.  We cannot go back.  And even if I could, I would not.”

Daeron wondered too what more was behind his words but did not dare to ask.  There was some dreadful horror that followed Fëanor and all his kin across the sea.  What would become of that, he could not see.  Though he feared the worst. 

“What would you speak of instead?” Daeron asked.

“Music.  Life.  Joy.  I have not had cause to dwell on such things in a long while.  My son is a mighty singer it is true, but your songs are nearer to the heart than the simple sophistication of art.”

“Your words honor me,” Daeron paused, considering, “I put the thought of all I love in all I make and all I sing.  There is little more to it than that.”

“And yet you have not the love of your desire.”

Daeron stopped again and looked down, “No.  That is true.”

Fëanor stopped also and turned to face him, “And would you have other than your desire?”

Daeron’s brow furrowed, “I am not certain.  I had not thought so.”

Fëanor held his hand out before him, “I cannot offer you love, not now.  Not yet.  Adoration, maybe.  And some comfort.  If you would have me?”

“What do you mean, my lord?”

Fëanor took one of Daeron’s hands in his and bent to kiss his fingers, “Do not think me profane, but I would worship hands such as yours, and your voice, and your skill as they should be worshipped.”

Daeron felt a warmth enter him, as though from Fëanor’s lips to his hand, and arm, and then throughout his whole body.  He was struck suddenly by the heaviness of a profound desire.  Daeron raised his eyes to meet Fëanor’s and saw his own hunger mirrored there thrice over.  He trembled slightly under the force of it and found that he had unknowingly taken a step forward so that the fabric of his robe brushed that of Fëanor’s lightly.  Another surge of desire coursed through his veins at this softest touch. 

Suddenly, Daeron found himself enwrapped in Fëanor’s arms, and Fëanor’s warm lips were pressed to his own.   Fëanor kissed him ferociously as though in his own hunger he would devour him.  The image of flames leaping from ship to ship flashed briefly into Daeron’s mind and he felt now that same fire burning in Fëanor and wondered if some day it would consume him.  But Daeron soon passed beyond thinking in his own ardor.

As their kisses grew hotter, Daeron felt Fëanor pushing his robe away from his shoulders.  Their remaining clothing was soon discarded and in their fervor they fell together on the disheveled pile, the makings of an improvised bed. 

There they lay tangled limb by limb and Daeron felt the blood-rush of pleasure overturn his senses.  He had never felt such acute sensation, such absolute surrender to his flesh at the flesh of another. 

 

Neither Daeron nor Fëanor had been aware they had made any sound.  Yet they must have, for one now approached them in the midst of their joining.

“Father!” Maglor cried in horror and disbelief, instantly shielding his eyes with his hand.

Fëanor looked up, “Makalaurë this does not concern you, get thee gone!”

Maglor needed no further warning.  He turned and fled, running as swiftly as he could back to the camp. 

Daeron had stilled in bewilderment.  A slow laugh began deep in his throat then changed into a chuckle, “That was quite unexpected.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I’m not sure, but not this.”

“Did you want to stop?” Fëanor asked seriously.

“I didn’t say that.”

 

No one dared to disturb them again.  But by the time the others had awoken, Daeron and his men had gone.  It was a strange report that they brought back to Doriath.  The strangest part of it though, Daeron did not share.  He did, however, remember.  And a new thread wove itself into his songs.  A fire so consuming it devoured everything in its wake, even itself in the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Arsonist's Lullabye" by Hozier, full lyrics run:
> 
> When I was a child, I heard voices  
> Some would sing and some would scream  
> You soon find you have few choices  
> I learned the voices died with me
> 
> When I was a child, I'd sit for hours  
> Staring into open flame  
> Something in it had a power  
> Could barely tear my eyes away
> 
> All you have is your fire  
> And the place you need to reach  
> Don't you ever tame your demons  
> But always keep 'em on a leash
> 
> When I was 16, my senses fooled me  
> Thought gasoline was on my clothes  
> I knew that something would always rule me  
> I knew the scent was mine alone
> 
> All you have is your fire  
> And the place you need to reach  
> Don't you ever tame your demons  
> But always keep 'em on a leash


End file.
